Categories

Categories

Advertisements

Welcome to The Curmudgeon’s lair

Welcome to my curmudgeondom. As you’ll soon learn, your reactions to my missives here are likely to range from fear to loathing to tears to outright rage—and I just might even evoke from you an occasional sober nod or two.

If you see a posting you like and wish to share it with others, by all means feel free to do so. I'd prefer that you send the link to your friends, but you're also welcome to reproduce anything here—as long as you retain my identity on the document. If you have a web site of your own and wish to post a link to this blog (or to a specific post), again, feel free to do so.

The purpose of this blog is simple: to provide me a vehicle for sounding-off on whatever topic suits me at the moment. While there’s sure to be no shortage of politically-oriented palaver here, it is by no means all (nor necessarily even most) of what will be proffered to your discerning mind. You’ll also find that my personal politics, ethics, morals, and standards are pretty much “all over the map” (according to my mother-in-law)—so, don’t be surprised to see rants regarding, say, the interference of churches in politics, politically-correct anything, “nanny” laws, taxes, the United Nations, Congress, the Commissioner of Baseball, the State of Ohio’s speed limits, steroids, Jesse Jackson, the “mainstream” media, ultra-liberals, ultra-conservatives, the price of cigarettes, Obamarxism, regulating sales of alcohol, gasoline price manipulation, Muslim foot baths, illegal immigration, laws banning the sale of adult sex toys, cell phones, heavy-handed cops, meddlesome politicians, Hillary, Billary, our all-but-self-proclaimed uncrowned Queen Nancy, “W”, eminent domain, freedom of speech, and the designated hitter all in succession. It is, as I said, my curmudgeondom — and I have the credentials and bona fides to lay claim to the title of The Curmudgeon. So, there.

Some of the postings you'll encounter may seem familiar—especially to those who know me personally. By way of explanation… I once had an ongoing relationship with a local newspaper, and had a number of published opinion pieces—some of which may be posted here. My arrangement was for a feature entitled An Opposing View; given that the editorial staff had a generally liberal, left-of-center view, it stands to reason that my "opposing" view would generally be perceived as coming from the right (in more ways than one, in my own humble opinion). These posts will be annotated as having been previously published.

Comments, of course, are always welcome. You may agree or disagree with me. Doesn’t matter. Of course, I reserve the right to completely ignore you — but, feel free to let your feelings be known, anyway. And if you don't want to comment directly here, my e-mail address is: jimseeber@gmail.com .

Oh, and…yes, I can spell. That "Write-wing" is only a play on words. So, there. Again.

John Adams wrote that Independence Day “…ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty.”

Not quite my idea of a party.

But then, he wrote “It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever.”

Now, that‘s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

This isn’t a time for somber reflection; it’s a CELEBRATION. Break out the fireworks, shoot-off a miniature cannon (if you have one), make some noise, and have a ball; that’s what the day is for. Crank-up the backyard grill. Fly the flag. The whole bit.

And lots of firecrackers.

I’ll freely admit that some of my fondest boyhood memories are of growing-up in a small town in central Ohio where The Fourth was a very big deal. The one day out of the year when simple, unbridled patriotism was welcome pretty much everywhere, when everyone pulled-out all the stops and had a good time. Every charcoal grill at every house for miles around worked overtime, assaulting the palate with that amalgam of smoke, barbecue sauce, roasted chicken, ribs, burgers, hot dogs, steaks, and marshmallows. We’d ride our bicycles gaudily festooned with red, white, and blue crepe paper, flags flew from everything that would support one, we were awash in the aroma of hundreds of pies baking, and delighted in our little one-horse town parade. Corn-on-the-cob dripping gobs of butter. Homemade ice cream. Watermelon.

The town’s leaders always did a good job of things, and various civic organizations pulled together to make the occasion memorable. There was a festival set up at the local high school football field, with sack races, three-legged races, wheelbarrow races, a greased-pig contest (does PETA even allow that, anymore?), a greased-pole climb, and stuff I can’t even remember now. We’d throw the baseball and try to dunk the chick in the swimsuit, chase the pig, and earnestly shinny-up the pole for that cherished $10 prize at the top. And food everywhere, with each food booth smelling as good as the one before and the one after, and it was impossible to get in trouble. Pie-eating contests. Watermelon-eating contests (and seed-spitting, of course).

And always the sporadic firecracker activity to punctuate the occasion.

It was a great day to be a kid. Or even a grown-up, for that matter.

After a hard day at play, it was back home to the real supper (after running the gauntlet of everyone else’s grills) in anticipation of the one fireworks display we’d see all year—which was always spectacular. As luck would have it, there’d always be ample opportunity for toasting marshmallows and a round of homemade ice cream (and cranking that monster was actually a labor of love—with the promise of its own near-instant gratification to provide the impetus to keep going) in the fading light before the feature presentation began.

It’s been said that part of the idea of having fireworks and other noise-makers for the Fourth was to re-create the sounds of guns, explosions, and cannon-fire, reminding us that we are a republic born of the fire of revolution. That works for me. (So, when some modern-day self-proclaimed do-gooder tries to get rid of the fireworks, bluntly direct him/her to someone else’s party to screw-up; this one’s supposed to be loud.)

I also recall reading many years ago a treatise by some music guru (using whatever criteria he’d determined; I don’t remember all the details) who explained that John Philip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever was the most perfectly-conceived musical composition in history. That works for me, too. By all means, strike-up the band, fire-up those grills, and get those fuzes lit.

For this one day out of the year, we get corny, rousing music, fun, Sousa, and a helluva lot of Ka-BOOM‘s—all without having to listen to some egghead latter-day social genius or politician apologizing for all the things that he thinks we aren’t; rather, we simply celebrate who and what we are. And gobs of butter dripping from our corn-on-the-cob. And barbecue.